Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

the squalling of ravens accompanies the burst of their bodies from cover, erupting from the forest fringing the easterly limit of the woodland. they are a cacophony—but an excited one. there is blood on the wind and they are hungry.

their bodies are black smudges against a clear sky. they wing around the top of a lonely cypress tree.

upon the crest of a hill beneath the cypress, sprawling, is the eaten corpse of a stag felled weeks ago after the rut. there are only some pieces left, and not much to be kept. but the wolf that has staked its claim over it does not care, for he is hungry too.